the fit of the cowl
by RebelzHeart
Summary: Thoughts on Dick Grayson as Batman. Oneshot


Dick is art in motion, smooth curves and jagged edges, soft steps and attention-grabbing landings, but at night he is quiet, the energy pulled from him by a daytime of movement and dramatics.

It's always odd to see Dick as Batman—not because, as Jason had originally thought, he moves the way he does, but because he doesn't.

As Batman, Dick is still, soft, eerily calculated, no movements wasted on the flourishes that Jason is accustomed to.

It's unsettling, in that there's so much of Bruce in this, even when Dick wears the armour, sometimes Jason will look and it won't be Dick, it'll be Bruce, though Bruce is gone, was gone, he had been—

He's back now, Jason knows, and maybe that's why it throws him for a loop every time that Dick fills in for Bruce, because it's the subtle little tells that Jason has to pick up on in order to separate the two in his mind.

It scares him a bit, he thinks, how good Dick is at this. How easily he picked up the cowl, picked up Bruce's mantle.

"It fits you well," Jason says, quietly, in the aftermath of a fight, Robin having gone with Bruce and Tim on a trip abroad, leaving Gotham to Dick, Jason and the girls.

"What?" Dick laughs, back to being him, head tilted to the side, an easy grin on his lips.

Like Jason said. Unsettling.

"Batman," Jason jerks his head, throat oddly tight, and changes the subject awkwardly, "Didn't think I'd be in the Cave this often."

Dick gets that conflicted look on his face, that way he does when he's torn between trying to avoid a serious topic and wanting to get all sappy and sentimental.

"That's not the point," Jason clears his throat, a bit annoyed with himself for getting cheesy, especially with no real reason to. "You're good at it. At being the Bat. Don't know why you tried avoiding it for so long, honestly. It suits you like a glove."

"I knew."

Jason starts a bit, or mentally, anyways. No way he's going to physically start, especially not in front of this family. They'd tease him for months, assholes that they are.

Dick is quiet for a moment, armour half stripped, looking away like he's physically unable to meet Jason's eyes. "I knew that I'd be good at this. At being Batman. And I didn't—" he sucks in a breath, sharp, unhappy, "I didn't want to find out just how good I'd be."

"Yeah, well," Jason grins, "You're not that good."

Dick laughs a little, loud and a bit hollow, and Jason can tell that Dick knows, but the little frown he gives himself, almost as though scolding himself for not being able to make it sound more natural.

It feels oddly wrong, watching Dick like this, so Jason turns away, and the rest of the evening, it's no longer Batman by his side, just his big brother, light and teasing and kind of annoying but it's alright, all the same.

* * *

Steph never knew Dick before he became Batman, not really.

Sure, she'd met Nightwing once or twice, but it was the bare minimum, skimming, brief glimpses of a hand waving goodbye to Tim before leaving, a man hanging from the dinosaur in the cave as Bruce grumbled and Tim skittered away, mumbling we'll come back later even as Bruce insisted awkwardly you can stay.

But it was Batman that she'd met, that was how she met Dick, the man who loomed, tall and lean and pure muscle and kind of intimidating but mostly annoying for the condescending way he seemed to always talk to Steph.

He had always, to her, been the man who wanted her out of the way, the man who saw her as 'Tim's ex who got caught up in this' rather than Batgirl.

So, understandably, relations between the two of them had been somewhat strained.

It's strange, Tim had mused once, curled over his computer, his toes against her legs (freezing, ugh, Tim, ever heard of socks? Steph asks and he presses his toes into her stomach, just to be mean like that), because you're so alike. Or maybe that's why you don't get along?

What are you talking about? Steph had asked, scrunching up her nose, forehead wrinkling. We're nothing alike.

Tim had laughed, small and soft and kind of a half-snort, that way he always did, as though he were trying to hold it back and then realized that it was unnecessary for him to. And then, still, he softened a bit, going quiet, thoughtful.

Hm, he said, almost startled, blinking a bit at her, head cocked to the side.

What do you mean, hm?

Hm, he repeats, just to tease her and she sighs.

She hadn't really understood. Still doesn't, in some ways.

Oh, sure, Steph gets it, how they see Dick, all the others. Sees how they see him, in a manner. Understands that when they see him, they see his smile first, his flips first, his stupid charisma.

But Steph doesn't see that. She sees—at best—a costume. A cover. Because even when he smiles at her, even when he waves cheerfully while standing on one hand, all she sees is Batman, poised and sharp and ready and aware, more prepared on only one hand than she is even on both feet and in a fighting stance.

He's—he's poised, ready to attack, to defend, and that's not a bad thing, it isn't, but Steph has seen Tim, blearily waking the morning after a long mission, has seen the way he analyzes everything, eyes sharp and subtly raking over anything and everything.

Dick isn't even the same breed as Bruce, because Bruce, he actively goes for this life, he has forced it to become a habit, he has spent decades building Batman, building the man that he is, carefully choosing and picking his persona until habit made it him, no longer fake, but ingrained.

Dick? He is—this. Them. Whatever this is. Dick grew into this, Dick was in the streets at nine, when Steph was only starting to realize that her neighbourhood wasn't normal.

Dick was at computer screens, analyzing profiles, before she learned algebra.

Does it scare her? No.

Steph is infinitely grateful to have someone like Dick on their side, honest.

But where the others see a brother, she sees an ally, one who she has difficulty fully understanding.

At least, that's how it is, until a patrol with Dami ends badly, an Arkham breakout unexpectedly happening while they were out, caught mostly off guard but for a brief, panicked info dump from O.

And, isn't it strange, that what it took to see Dick as more than just Batman, was him, being the most as Batman?

Dami gets injured, and Dick is calm. Eerily so.

He instructs Steph in cold, clipped tones, telling O to take over for medical advice, and he fights neatly. Textbook, really.

Which is interesting, because if there's anything that Dick isn't, it's textbook.

He holds Dami's hand, at the cave, with his own still covered in blood, dripping onto the cave floor, and Steph has a moment to think I'll clean that up later so that Alfred doesn't have to.

She stands over, watching quietly, and Dick says into Dami's knuckles, voice shaking, trying and failing to be light, "Well, this isn't very productive, is it?"

"Shut up, Springy," Steph says, and something sort of clicks in the way Dick folds over Dami, blood and dirt smudged on his cheek from the fight earlier, "Are you trying to emulate Bruce or something?"

He laughs at her, a startled sound, and then he says, "You're worried, too, aren't you," and it should be a question except the Bats are terrible, even with just pretending that they don't know the way that every one of her gears is turning.

"Nothing wrong with that," Steph says, primly. Pushes Dami's hair from his forehead, fingers hovering over for a brief, still moment, before she realizes, "Was that a joke?"

Dick's laugh is a bit watered down, mostly embarrassment in his words as he asks, "That bad?"

"Kind of, yeah," Steph kind of squint-smiles at Dick, and then says, "You know, you're super creepy."

That is apparently not what Dick expected her to say, because something like confusion flickers over his face before he clears his throat and says, "Thanks? I think?"

She hums, laughs a bit at him, and thinks that she might see now, even if she doesn't understand, what the others see in Dick, the person beyond Batman.

* * *

To be completely honest, Tim had never thought much of Dick. That wasn't a bad thing or anything, just, Jason had been his Robin, growing up, Jason had been the Robin who hid in Batman's cape and slammed his pipe into criminals, rough and abrasive, and that was the Robin that Tim had known.

And then, even when he was Robin, Dick dropped by every so often, yeah, but Tim mostly thought of him as the Robin who wasn't, the one who had created the role and then left it in the dust. Dick had Bludhaven, and Tim had Bruce's back as they looked over Gotham.

So, maybe he shouldn't have felt so betrayed when Robin was taken away. Looking back, sure, it was the right decision on Dick's part. Doesn't mean it doesn't still smart, in some ways, like a taser to the neck.

Still, Tim sees it, sometimes, in Dick.

The boy who made Robin.

Cheerful, energetic, the metaphorical light to Batman's dark, the one who made it so that Bruce never fell into the state that he did after Jason's death. The one who kept Bruce alive, with a purpose beyond something that twisted justice and vengeance until they seemed to go almost hand in hand.

And—really, that light, it's the most apparent in Dick, even now.

He had chosen Nightwing, for Gotham's sake. The hero of the story, inspiring others.

Jason had taken the moniker of his most hated enemy, and Tim—Tim still had difficulty letting go of the past, he supposed, and that was why he chose Red Robin, wasn't it?

Which, maybe, was part of why it felt so jarring whenever Tim saw Dick as Batman, because he slipped into it with an eerie sort of ease.

"Aw, thanks," Dick says, looking like he's a bit conflicted about how to feel, both pleased and somewhat disturbed. "I'm a good Bat?"

"Of course," Tim raises an eyebrow, "You'll be taking it after Bruce retires, right?"

Dick's face twists, kind of scrunching up weirdly, and then, humming, "What if—what if Gotham doesn't need Batman?"

Tim stares at Dick with alarmed, wide eyes, mouth opening and closing for a moment before he demands, "What?"

"Oh, relax," Dick laughs, curling his fingers through Tim's hair, "I don't mean just leaving Gotham alone. I just mean," he hums and shifts a bit, "What if it just needs a Red Robin? Or a Hood? Or even just a Batgirl. Maybe Batman can retire, along with Bruce."

"But you're—" Tim waits for his brain to reset properly, and Dick does, too, a patient smile on his lips, "—you'll go back to Bludhaven, to be Nightwing, then?"

"I'm thinking about it," Dick agrees, light, easy, and Tim stares, stunned.

"But—but, Batman—" Tim scrambles, "I became Robin because Gotham needed Batman. Because—because nothing could fill in Batman's shoes. Because a Gotham without Batman is just—just Gotham, a worse Gotham, it's not— it's not the same."

"We didn't have a Red Robin back then," Dick answers, tilting his head to the side. "You're doing so good, Tim. And Bruce—Bruce is prepping you, in his own way. I don't want this to be meant as pressure, to force you to do anything, I just want you to know that if you choose to keep doing this, Jason will be here. O will be here. Steph, too. And even if they weren't, you would be amazing for Gotham."

Tim gapes, "I—this isn't about me?"

It's supposed to be a statement, but it comes out as a question. Dick, it appears, has that affect on people.

"Of course not," Dick ruffles his hair, "Hey, want to get some ice cream? I know that it's still cold outside, but I was thinking…"

* * *

Unlike the others, Cass has long since known that Dick never intended to be Batman. And unlike the others, she can never truly see him as the Bat, because the Bat is Bruce, Bruce with quiet little jokes that only the two of them understand, Bruce with no touch but whose presence calms her all the same (perhaps more so because of it).

But Cass knows, because it bleeds into Dick's motion, the strength of his shoulders, the sharpening of his eyes.

Where the others see it as strength, as a sign that Dick is meant for the cowl, Cass sees it as his seeing it as temporary, the cowl, each time he puts it on, is a boost, like in those games that Tim plays, with the odd little noises communicating what words cannot.

It gives him strength, perhaps, but it is temporary, only, and it is only because he knows that it is temporary that he can hold it upon his shoulders. If Dick were to see the Bat as permanent upon his shoulders, the cape would swallow him whole.

Which is why Cass understands, when Dick is logical, calm, standing in the warehouse on the screen in the middle of all the bodies left by the Joker as a message, when his words are clear, clipped, as he gives out orders as though he feels nothing.

"Oh god," Steph whispers, pressing her hands to her mouth. She's been kept on standby, doing her homework while she waits for a go sign or a dismissal.

They hadn't known if they would need more than those already on the streets after the Arkham breakout, but now that they know the Joker is out, Cass knows the command will come swift, and it makes her sad that something so big is needed for something so small to happen.

Jason is looking at the screen with something he tries to pass off as anger, but Cass can read the tension in his back and the flinch in his chest, and she knows what he feels even if she cannot put words to it.

So Cass knows what she has to do as she leans over and asks, quietly, into the comms, "Orders?"

The others look at her like she's crazy, but Dick is calm, and for now, Dick is Batman, as he gives his orders, swift and clean and clear, well thought out, accounting for their emotions and reactions.

Dick, Cass supposes, isn't bad at being Batman. But, she thinks, he is not Batman, and he never truly will be.

(That is also not a bad thing, because Dick is her brother, and Batman is her father, and Cass is content to be in the in-between.)

* * *

Batman, mother had always told him, is your father. But Damian supposes that even mother sometimes doesn't have the full facts.

Batman wasn't just Damian's father, though he is, he supposes, had been the original. Batman had been the man who had raised him, who taught him how to walk the line between light and dark, reality to the masses and the crusade that Damian would have allowed to swallow him had Richard not stopped it from happening.

Batman, to Damian, blurred, because Batman wasn't Richard's kisses on the forehead nor father's awkward touch on his back while Damian buries his face in his hands and tries to remember Brown's lessons that this sort of behaviour isn't weak.

No, Batman is a voice of coal, disembodied from a face, attached to a cowl.

Batman is the sense of safety as the bulletproof cape wraps around him and he's pressed to a chest of kevlar.

Batman is precise tones in the midst of blood and chaos.

Batman is adrenaline running through his veins as he smashes into a fight.

Batman is a line between brother and father.

Batman is crooked smiles and stupid puns. But Batman is also a grim face and don't clutter the comms.

Batman is a hand ruffling his hair, a crow of good job. But Batman is also a finger against crime photos, a gruff you missed this.

Batman is Richard, and Batman is father, and where the line is supposed to be drawn, it is hard to tell because Damian was grown up being toldthat Batman was his father but he knew Batman as Richard.

"He's good at being the Batman," Todd says, something twisting his lips as he looks away, and it must be so because Todd was the one, Damian thinks, that truly knew father as Batman in his prime, when he wasn't tainted by fear and paranoia and all those things that make Pennyworth look at father sometimes with a look as though father were the reason that all his hairs turned white.

Damian cannot find the right words to say because his basis of Batman lies somewhere between mother's tales as she strikes him with a wooden sword and Richard's voice, gravel and bone.

Batman, mother had told him, was father.

But for Damian, Batman is a charcoal drawing, smudged and in-between, a picture lying between a man and a tale, a father and a brother, a myth and a reality.

And it doesn't matter what Batman is, really, because he is Robin and he'll be by Batman's side for so long as he can.

* * *

Does Barbara have an opinion on Dick as Batman?

Well.

Maybe.

Sorta.

…Not really?

Life moves on, even from the first boy she fell in love with, even if moving on means sitting behind a billion screens in a wheelchair as she watches him beat up some crook.

Sure, she's watched Dick change, but she was there for most if not all of it and Barbara changed with him. There are some things she misses, yeah, the way he used to laugh all creepy and make people flinch, but she likes his new laugh, too, and that's what she's gotten used to.

It's not that the change came fast, it's that it came slow, and when change comes slow, you don't really have an opinion on it. It's just the way it happens, that's reality, and it sticks with you, and either you stick with it or you end up in Arkham.

Seeing as Barbara's fighting the guys from Arkham, she'd say she's doing quite well.

Dick, as Batman? Her opinions?

Her opinions on him as Batman don't matter. (Is he good at it? Sure. Does his crooked grin make her roll her eyes? Yes. For goodness sake, there's literally a person missing an arm that he's trying to interrogate and the idiot's flirting like there isn't a ten year old in kevlar-lined-spandex beside him.)

What matters is that Barbara does her job and she's pretty damn good at it.

He didn't suddenly come into this, this stupid gravelly voice (ugh, seriously, every time she hears it she has to stifle a laugh, and that's not good when you're trying to solve a case given to you by the police) and this precision.

Like. He literally chose Nightwing as his moniker. Nightwing, as in the a creature of darkness going around being all shadowy and all?

"Trying to pull a Jason and go all goth?" She had asked, raising an eyebrow.

He had pouted at her and tickled her until she laughed. He'd always been good at deflecting, even when the only tricks up his sleeve were his flips.

"Nightwing was always alone, forced to walk the darkness," He'd grinned at her, a bit sad, before donning Bruce's cowl, "Sounds a bit too much like teenage angst, if you really think about it."

"Nightwing was always doing what was right, even if it meant being alone," Barbara had answered, after a pause that had been too long, saying something serious where she should have answered with a joke. But they had gone years without discussing it, since his break with Bruce, and it needed to be said. "That was why you chose it."

"He did it for love," Dick winks, and she rolls her eyes, and the tension lifts.

Is he good at being Batman? Sure, why not.

But change came slow, and Barbara doesn't dwell on these sorts of things. She's got a job to do, and children to coral.

(Ugh. Seriously, why is Tim drinking his fifth cup of coffee she had literally enlisted Steph, how could she—oh, Tim bribed her with cheesecake. Why is Barbara the only mature one.)

* * *

"How I feel about being Batman?" Dick scrunches up his nose as he presses his head onto Bruce's shoulder, "It's not bad, I guess. Kind of cool? I dunno. It's so dark. Like, literally, not a single colour? You couldn't get anything but black? If Gotham weren't always cloudy, you'd be, like, super hot in that thing."

"The fabric is breathable," Bruce answers, amused, "I would be fine."

"Sure, you tell yourself that," Dick grins, "I thought we were reading All Involved?"

Bruce huffs, "I don't see why we need to read a book from a gang member's perspective."

"It has good reviews online," Dick pouts, "Plus the author's TED Talk was super cool."

Bruce has too much dignity to roll his eyes, but if he didn't, he'd totally be doing that right now. "Dick."

"Reeead," Dick pokes Bruce's side, laughing when Bruce makes the grunt that means he's suppressing a giggle. (Has Bruce ever actually giggled? Maybe. Okay, fine, no. Never. Nooot the point. Dick will make him giggle someday, he swears.)

Bruce reads, quiet and gravelly, and this isn't Batman, just his dad, fingers in Dick's hair, breath on his forehead.

(Someday, Dick knows, Batman will become a relic. Someday, Batman will be known as the first, but not the last.

But for now, Batman doesn't matter. Because he is there, and justice is served, and also this book is seriously good, Dick is so glad that he convinced Bruce to read it out loud to him, his voice suits the tone of the book so well.)


End file.
